


darling right now I can't see you

by StormDancer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Artist Zayn, Bottom Zayn, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Zayn Malik & Louis Tomlinson Friendship, Zayn-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4910443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don’t fall in love with your fuck buddy. Zayn knows this. He always has. You don’t fall in love with your fuck buddy, especially when they’re as different as Harry is from Zayn. He’s not good at it, but he knows the rule.</p>
            </blockquote>





	darling right now I can't see you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nottheonlyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottheonlyone/gifts).



> Thanks to nottheonlyone for the prompt, it was exactly the sort of thing I wanted to write. I hope it lives up to expectations!
> 
> Don't know, don't own, all that jazz.

“Hey, Zayn. Guy in the corner table for you.”

Zayn dodges a busboy leaving the kitchen, then, “Corner table’s yours,” he points out, ducking inside the kitchen again behind Claire. It’s nearing the end of his shift, and the dinner rush has died down, so he can take a second. He might have anyway, honestly. It hadn’t been the best night in the restaurant, where a customer had actually snapped their fingers at him, and then another had claimed that he’d gotten their order wrong when he was sure he hadn’t. But of course he’d had to nod and smile and do everything but bend his fucking knees, because that’s what he did now, apparently. It hadn’t even been the worst night either, but that’s something he doesn’t want to think about.

“Yeah, well, they requested you special.” Claire tosses a grin over her shoulder as she quickly loads up a tray. She’s new, but she’s chill enough, and competent. Which is more than Zayn can say for some of his co-workers. “Pretty cute, too. I’d take it.”

It couldn’t be—but it has to be. Who else would it be? Harry’s shown up to the restaurant once or twice, the first time when he was trying to track Zayn down and remembered he’d mentioned it, then a few other times when he’s in the neighborhood. When he thinks it’s a laugh to stop by and wink at Zayn as he waits on him and hint at why the other chair’s empty and leave a cheeky note on the receipt. Zayn’s fingers close over his wrist, his nails digging into his skin. Fuck. He hates it when Harry stops by here.

But he glances in the shiny reflection of the nearest metallic surface of a fridge. His hair’s a mess from a eight hour shift, lying flat on his head instead of carefully styled like it usually is with Harry, at least at the start, but he can coax it into some semblance of a style, sweeping it over his eyes in an almost orderly fringe. There’s not much he can do with his uniform, but he straightens the red button down, tugs on his black slacks. It’s something, at least. Maybe Harry won’t notice the stain on his thigh where he spilled some sauce.

“Malik!” Jamal’s rumbling voice snaps Zayn out of it from behind the stove. It doesn’t much matter, anyway. Harry knows what he is. “Get going!”

“I’m gone,” he snaps back, because Jamal’s a prick but his one saving grace as a boss is he doesn’t mind people being pricks back, and stuffs his notepad into his apron as he trays the meal for table thirteen.

He takes a deep breath as he steps out into the restaurant. It’s a far cry from the chaos of the kitchen; quiet and sedate, almost romantic, if Zayn could think that shit about a place he spends far more time than he’d like in, candles on each table and chairs Zayn hears are comfortable and tablecloths the same red as Zayn’s shirt.

Zayn doesn’t look towards the corner table as he serves table thirteen, a group of middle-aged women in strappy sandals and designer dresses, at least two of whom don’t bother pretending they aren’t leering at him. He flirts a little as he hands them their food, making some sort of comment about the woman’s gold locket, because he could do with the tip, then checks on the other tables in his section. He still doesn’t look at the corner. He doesn’tant to see Harry watching him here.

Finally, though, everyone’s been checked on and happy, or as happy as they’re going to get, and Zayn doesn’t have a choice. He brushes his hair back again, digs his nails into his arm hard enough to sting, and turns to the corner—then lets out a laugh that’s more than half hysterical at the sight of familiar blue eyes and a sharp face rather than curls and dimples, jeans and a t-shirt instead of brightly patterned Yves Saint-Laurent.

“The fuck are you doing here?” he asks, kicking at Louis’s leg under the table. Louis smirks up at him, totally unrepentant.

“Can’t I want to treat myself to a nice meal?” he asks, with badly faked innocence. Zayn rolls his eyes.

“You can’t afford this place.”

“I could!”

“Not if you want to make rent, and you better fucking make rent.”

Louis opens his mouth like he wants to reply, then shrugs and grins. “Not anymore.”

“What?” Zayn demands. He glances around, but no one’s calling him anywhere, he probably can talk some. And Louis’s got the sort of knife-edge energy that means he’s excited about something. “Did you—”

“You’re talking to the new Roger on the world’s most off Broadway production of Rent!” It comes out in a rush, but Louis’s nearly vibrating, and his smile’s not his usual sharp one, it’s just happy and incredulous.

“What? Louis!” Zayn doesn’t give a fuck what people think; he bends down to hug Louis. “That’s awesome!”

“I know!” Louis brushes his hair away from his face, glances down at the table. “I didn’t—you know, I didn’t think I would, but—yeah.” He shakes his head, then looks up again, the vulnerability gone. “Anyway, to celebrate my inclusion in the great world of paid actors, we’re going out tonight.”

Zayn had been planning to actually carve out some time to paint tonight, if he wasn’t too exhausted by his shift. Or, if he found himself staring too much at the filled canvases piled in his bedroom that are meals he scrounged from the restaurant that have yet to go anywhere, to go out tagging, make something people will see, even if it’s just green eyes, too big and intense and sparkling. But Louis’s grinning and excited, and this is so amazing—Louis’s been auditioning fruitlessly as long as Zayn’s been trying to get his art into a gallery, maybe even longer—that Zayn nods. “’course we are. I get off in forty-five minutes.”

“And in that time,” Louis looks at the menu Claire had given him, surveying it with his nose in the air, “I will have an order of steamed clams.”

“That’s the cheapest appetizer.”

“The second cheapest,” Louis corrects, and Zayn rolls his eyes.

“You better give me a massive tip,” Zayn warns, writing it down and kicking at Louis again, for good measure.

“I’ll buy your drinks tonight.”

“Deal.” Zayn grins at him, then tucks his note pad away again and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Proud of you, bro.”

“Yeah.” Louis ducks his head. “Go get me my food.”

Zayn squeezes too tight so Louis yelps, then goes. He’s proud of Louis, he tells himself as he puts the order slip in the line. He’s proud of him, and his success has no bearing on Zayn’s lack thereof. It’ll be good for one of them to have something that pays, anyway.

And at least it wasn’t Harry. Fuck. Why wasn’t it Harry?

////

Factor X is loud and dark, and Louis does as he promises and buys Zayn three rounds of shots before he disappears out with a girl, murmuring something in her ear as they dance that has her laughing. Zayn watches from the bar for a while, making sure Louis’s not going to do something stupid, because he does that sometimes. But this club—it’s a good club, it’s the one he and Louis usually go to, it’s fine. And if he’s aware of his phone in his pocket, and of how, at this bar, almost a year ago, a man with long brown curls and a wicked smile had bought him a drink, well, he clearly needs to be less sober.

“On me,” someone says next to him, and Zayn glances over. He’s cute, tall and built with a blinding smile that Zayn can see even in the flashing lights of the club and pecs that are trying very hard to break free of his t-shirt. “You’re far too hot to be drinking alone.”

Zayn smirks back, hollows out his cheeks around the straw as he sucks the last bit of liquid out of his drink. The guy’s eyes go right to them. “You could do something about that.”

Twenty minutes later, after a drink and three songs dancing together, pressing their bodies together and the guy’s hands, smaller than no one Zayn’s thinking about, on Zayn’s hips, his body hard and solid behind Zayn’s, no give at all unlike nothing Zayn’s thinking about, Zayn’s back hits the wall leading to the bathrooms. The guy—Arthur, Zayn thinks he’d said—has a hand on the wall and the other lightly on Zayn’s waist as he kisses him, his lips hot and hard. It’s a good kiss, and he’s doing everything right with his tongue and his lips and his hands and his hips, and Zayn wraps his arms around his neck to kiss him back, moaning a little.

“You’re really fucking hot,” the guy murmurs, his voice too high, as he trails his lips down Zayn’s neck.

“Shut up.” Zayn grabs his head, brings him back up to kiss him. He can do this. He can do this with Arthur, whose jeans are a little ripped and whose t-shirt shows wear. This is good, this is what he needs. To take these hands and the light sinking into his skin, the heat of the moment with the bass pounding in his head, take this moment—

His phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s probably Louis, he tells himself. Telling him he’s going home with some girl, not to worry about him. It’s about that time of night, that’s all it is. He should concentrate on Arthur, on his hands on his ass.

His phone buzzes again, and shit. Zayn pulls away from the guy, puts a hand on his chest to keep him away. Very nice chest, he notices despite himself, as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, which takes more effort than it otherwise would in his tight going-out jeans.

It’s not Louis.

 _Whatcha up to?_ is the first text, then after it, _want to come over? ;)_

Zayn shouldn’t. He could just hook up with Arthur, like he clearly would be up for, go home to his dingy flat. He probably should.

But he’s already slipping out from Arthur’s arms, with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, my friend’s got a…” he trails off. He doesn’t know what else to say. Sorry, my fuckbuddy from uptown’s calling me?

“Yeah, sure.” Arthur shrugs, smiles again. “Got to go?”

“Yeah. Like, thanks. I’ll—”

“See you round,” Arthur nods, even though they both know he won’t. But Zayn nods, and heads back into the main room of the club.

 _Heading out now xx_ , he sends to Harry. Then, to Louis, _I won’t be home tonight x_

////

The bus ride always takes forever, Zayn staring out the window at the long spaces of concrete just waiting for something to fill them, his leg bouncing in anticipation, but he gets there eventually. The doorman of Harry’s building waves him up as Zayn nods at him, even if he can feel the man’s eyes tracking Zayn as he goes farther into the building. There’s no one in the elevator, thankfully, because that’s always awkward, feeling them looking at him and wondering. So instead Zayn just taps his foot as the elevator shoots up and up and up, until he makes it to Harry’s flat.

Harry opens the door on his first knock, yanking the door open, already smiling.

“Zayn!” he says, like it’s a surprise, like he didn’t just summon him here. He’s grinning, bright with a hint of wicked, and his hair’s loose and he’s barefoot, changed out of his work suit into his tight jeans and a shirt Zayn can just tell costs more than his yearly income.

“Hey, Harry.” Zayn gives him his best smirk, all come hither. “Gonna leave me on the doorstep?”

“Come on in.” Harry steps back, ushering him in. Zayn doesn’t get much farther than three steps into the entranceway when his back is hitting the wall again, Harry crowding him into the wall right next to a painting Zayn’s never dared ask if it’s an original Pisarro.

“You get dressed up for me?” Harry purrs, his hands moving slowly from Zayn’s shoulders down his sides to his hips, then his ass. “I love these jeans.”

Zayn shakes his head. “I was at Factor X.”

Harry pulls back enough to pout, the expression disconcertingly young on his face when his hands are wandering all over Zayn. “Zaaaayn.”

“What? I was.” He manages a smile before Harry’s kissing him, hard, and fuck. Why couldn’t Arthur have made him feel like this, like he’s coming apart at the seams, like he needs Harry closer or he’s going to die? He grabs at Harry’s hair, pulls until Harry moans and pushes his thigh between Zayn’s legs.

Harry’s lips move from his mouth to his jaw, over the faint hint of stubble there, then down to his neck, and it’s the same path Arthur took but it’s so much more, and Zayn’s hips are moving of their own accord against Harry’s thigh, when Harry pauses, his face pressed into Zayn’s neck.

“Were you…” he asks, trailing off. He pushes his thumb into what’s apparently a bit of a mark on Zayn’s neck, looking at it with a serious expression. “Did you?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Almost. But then you called,” he has to admit.

Harry grins, all satisfaction now, but his eyes are a little hard. “Am I better?”

“Has to be a reason I come forty-five minutes uptown instead of getting off there,” Zayn retorts, and Harry presses harder. Zayn groans, his head falling back.

“Good,” Harry hisses, then his lips are on Zayn’s neck again, sucking hard as Zayn’s hips jerk, because Harry’s always been able to make him feel so much, ever since the first blowjob in the bathrooms of Factor X.

“Harry,” Zayn moans, “Want—” He can’t think of the words, just grabs Harry’s hair and pulls him back up so he can kiss him properly, his full lips and big hands and all the things that fit so well.

“Yeah,’ Harry breathes. “Come on, bedroom.”

Zayn’s not sure who tugs who through the halls, because Zayn knows this path at least very well by now, over the lush carpets into Harry’s bedroom. The curtains of the massive plate glass windows are still open, and the whole city’s spread out past them. They’ve had fun on those windows before, leaving marks Zayn’s tried not to think about who cleans up, because it’s not Harry. But today they don’t go there, stripping each other with reckless hands. Zayn tries, as always, to be careful with Harry’s clothes, because he’s not sure what he’d do if he ripped one, but Harry just tosses it aside, same as he does with Zayn’s shirt, until they’re both naked and Zayn’s spread out on Harry’s massive bed, Harry climbing on top of him.

“Zayn,” Harry says quietly, his finger running down Zayn’s chest to trace over the lips in the center of his chest. “You…fuck.”

It makes Zayn smile, how Harry still says shit like that. At least he has that.

“You too,” he replies, and gets his hands on Harry’s ass to squeeze so Harry lets out his own moan. It’s true, though, and Zayn can’t stop looking, can’t stop touching, the strong muscles of his back, his stomach with just a hint of cushioning over solid abs, his hard, thick cock that Zayn wraps a hand around to see Harry’s eyes close before Harry catches his hand and moves it away.

“You’re here,” he says, a bit nonsensically Zayn thinks when it’s pretty clear he’s here, when it’s pretty clear what he wants, because he’s hard too, and if Harry doesn’t want him touching Harry he’ll touch himself. “Am I better than the other guy?” He slides down Zayn’s body, so he’s hovering over his cock, and Zayn can’t look away from his pink lips right there. “Rather be hooking up with me?”

“Wha-fuck,” he groans, as Harry wraps his lips around Zayn’s cock, and fuck it’s good. Zayn tries to keeps his hips still, but Harry’s wicked with his lips, always has been, and the sight of him is almost as devastating, his hair messy around his face, his whole face concentrating, all the skin exposed, the wild patterns of ink that should be stupid but Harry of course pulls off.

“Good,” Harry says, his gaze fierce, as he lets Zayn’s cock out of his mouth, and Zayn can’t remember what he’s talking about anymore, he just wants Harry back on him, or in him, or something. Harry must know, because he’s reaching for the drawer where the lube’s kept, slicking up his fingers.

“Harry, fuck, come on, please,” Zayn’s babbling, as Harry takes him down again, deeper, and his finger’s circling Zayn’s rim and when he pushes a finger in the strangled sound Zayn lets out isn’t quite a whine but it’s close.

He fingers Zayn slowly, inexorably almost, avoiding Zayn’s prostate except for brushes of his finger. They’ve learned each other’s bodies by now, so Harry knows how to do this to him so it reduces him to a mess, or maybe Harry’s just that good with everyone, Zayn tries not to think about that, and it’s easy when he finally presses against Zayn’s prostate and Zayn definitely whines this time, his hips grinding down onto Harry’s fingers.

“I’m ready, want you, hurry up,” he gets out, grabbing at Harry’s shoulder to get him up.

Harry’s a mess too, his lips swollen and his cheeks flushed, and he’s grinning, the wide pleased one he always gets before he fucks Zayn. “Yeah,” he agrees, a little dazed, and grabs the condom that’s on the bed somehow. Zayn sits up to roll it on him, stroking at Harry’s cock until Harry’s the one groaning.

“You have a preference for how?” Harry asks, once the condom’s on and they’re both panting.

“Nah. You?”

Harry’s gaze drags over him, almost burning hot, and Zayn has to squirm under the look, like he has since the beginning, that look like Harry wants all of him, so hot Zayn can almost imagine Harry’s want is more than just skin-deep.

“On your stomach,” Harry suggests, and Zayn nods and rolls over. Harry grabs one of the five million pillows he has on the bed to put under Zayn’s hips, then slowly starts to push into him.

Zayn’s body clenches at first, but they know how this works, and Harry goes slowly, petting at Zayn’s back until Zayn relaxes again, until it’s good and Zayn’s full of Harry.

“Come on, yeah,” Zayn moans, and Harry starts to move, in and out, and Zayn’s hips are moving back up to meet him and it’s so good, always is, this way only Harry can make him feel, the two of them together. The sheets are smooth under his cheek and they move sensually over him, and Harry’s skin is smooth and hot over him, and then Harry’s biting at Zayn’s shoulder because he likes that, to bite and mark, and Zayn groans and Harry’s going faster and Zayn’s hips are jerking onto the pillow despite himself, he can feel his own orgasm in the buzzing in his limbs and Harry pounding in and out of him—

“So pretty,” Harry grunts, his fingers digging into Zayn’s hips enough they’ll bruise, “You’re so—fucking—better than anyone,” he groans, and adjusts his angle so he hits Zayn’s prostate so Zayn moans and his hands fist into the sheets.

“Fuck, Harry, yeah, please, come on, want, please,” Zayn can’t shut up, never can in bed, and Harry loves it, or so Zayn’s always figured, because he buries his head in the back of Zayn’s neck and comes, his hips jerking into Zayn’s, saying things Zayn can’t hear because they’re buried into his skin.

He lies there for a moment, a slack dead weight that does feel good, but Zayn’s still aching and shaking and he’s so close, if he could just get a hand on himself…But before Zayn can say anything Harry shakes his head, sits up and pulls out before he urges Zayn back onto his back.

“I’m close, just touch me,” Zayn tells him, and Harry grins and does, kissing Zayn as he wraps a hand around him, jerking him off as his lips work over Zayn’s mouth and jaw and then he mouths at the particularly sensitive part of Zayn’s neck and then Zayn’s coming all over his hand on a moan of Harry’s name.

Harry strokes Zayn through it until he’s spent, then Zayn collapses back on the bed. He watches, his eyes half-lidded as Harry gets up, disposes of the condom, then grabs a washcloth from the en suite to wipe his hands off. He brings it back, and Zayn smiles sleepily at him as he cleans him up, his hands gentle over Zayn’s skin. He likes this part, when they’re both naked, when Zayn can almost forget the differences between them.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Harry murmurs, throwing the washcloth into a hamper before he lies down on the bed again with a lazy smile on. Zayn stretches, feeling the lethargy of a good orgasm sinking into his bones.

“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to Harry’s shoulder. He can be a bit affectionate after sex, he figures. That won’t matter. Nothing people say after sex counts. “Me too.”

////

Zayn wakes up with the sun in his face, with sheets smooth and sensual against his skin. That only means one thing, and he knows before he even opens his eyes. He must have fallen asleep at Harry’s. His own bedroom has a single slit of a window facing an alley, and sheets he got from Target.

Sure enough, when he opens his eyes, he’s looking up at lofty ceilings from a massive bed, that he’s alone in. He’s not surprised about this. He tries not to sleep over, not to intrude like that, but he’s always sleepy after sex, so it happens, and Harry won’t kick him out or anything. Whenever he does end up here in the morning, though, like has been happening more and more often lately because Zayn can’t entirely help it, Harry wakes up before him. Zayn’s woken up to Harry reading, to Harry on his computer, to Harry doing yoga naked with his skin lit by the sun streaming through the window, when Zayn pretended to be asleep for a little longer to soak in the sight of it. Harry never says anything, but Zayn knows it’s a bit bad form—fuckbuddies aren’t supposed to sleep over. Especially fuck buddies who you only met by a stroke of fate at a club you were having an adventure slumming it in, fuckbuddies who are starving artists who wear doc martens and could never afford YSL in their lives.

So Zayn gets up, even though the bed’s so comfortable he thinks he could sleep there forever, especially if Harry were there beside him. His clothes are neatly folded on a chair next to a pair of Harry’s sweats, because Harry’s weird like that, and Zayn makes a face but puts his tight jeans back on, rebuttons his shirt. He’d love a pair of sweatpants, but walk of shame is the walk of shame for a reason, he guesses. He shouldn’t get to comfortable.

He leaves the bedroom behind, goes down the hall towards the main rooms, where he can hear the humming that means Harry’s there.

Sure enough, Harry’s at the stove, humming cheerfully with just his boxers on as he cooks. Zayn hovers in the space between kitchen and living room in the open floor plan. He didn’t have time to just look last night, but sometimes he just has to appreciate Harry on an aesthetic level, the broad shoulders and strong back and narrow hips, the way his legs just never end, long and tanned. His hair’s pulled back into a bun, but there are strands escaping it, curling around his ears. He’d be so easy to hate, Zayn always thinks, hot and rich with family money and his own salary, if he weren’t so nice too. If this wasn’t sort of the best part, watching Harry just be Harry.

“Hey,” he says at last, when it’s getting a little creepy maybe.

Harry jumps, enough that Zayn starts forward to steady him, but he rights himself and turns to smile at Zayn, dimples deep in his cheeks. So fucking pretty, Zayn thinks.

“Morning!” Harry chirps, and turns to the espresso machine. “Coffee? I was just making us some breakfast.”

“Um, yeah.” Zayn takes the mug Harry hands him. Why did he have to be so nice, that he’d make his fuckbuddy breakfast, give him espresso that tastes, like always, a bit like heaven? “I can get out of your hair.”

“No hurry.” Harry grins at him as Zayn takes a sip of the espresso, makes a sound that he knows is very close to the ones he made last night. “Any requests for your omelet?”

“No bacon?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I know. But I’ve got turkey bacon, if you want it.”

“Oh. Sure.” Zayn sips at the coffee again. Harry beams at him for a moment, then turns back to the stove. The silence stretches, and it’s not awkward, which is always what’s weird. It should be awkward, but it’s not, and that makes Zayn awkward.

But he doesn’t know what to say either, so he watches Harry cook, trying to memorize the lay of muscles, how his hair brushes his neck, how deftly his hands move. If all his paintings have some of Harry in them now anyway, he might as well put him in right, even if it’s more the emotions that end up there. The fire and the want and the need, and the ache of it.

“How’s the painting going?” Harry asks, turning around to hand Zayn a plate with an omelet on it. It has a sprig of something as garnish, and Zayn has to smile at that. It’s so Harry.

“It’s good, I guess.” Zayn shrugs. “Doesn’t much matter. It’s not like I have anywhere to show it.” He shakes his head. He really doesn’t want to talk about that with Harry. “Louis got a part, though. He’s Roger, in Rent.”

“Really?” Harry looks so pleased, that Zayn’s friend who he’s met maybe twice got the part, it’s not fair. Louis does tend to make an impression, though. “You’ll have to tell me when the show goes up. I want to see it.”

“Why?”

“Because—” Harry opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Because I like that show, Zayn, obviously.”

“Doubt it’ll be of the caliber you’re used to.” Harry’s used to Broadway, to West End. Zayn loves Louis, and he’s brilliant, but this isn’t that sort of show.

“I still want to go.” Harry takes a bite of his own omelet, his tongue preceding his mouth like always. “Speaking of. Are you free Monday night?”

He’s got a morning shift that day, Zayn thinks, so, “Yeah. Why?” They don’t schedule their hook ups ahead of time, usually.

“Well, there’s, I mean.” Harry pushes a strand of hair out of his face. “There’s a gallery opening—it’s a friend of a friend’s, and their dad is one of our firm’s clients, so a bunch of us know them—and I thought you might want to go.”

“A gallery?” Zayn repeats. That’s—that’s not scheduling a hook up.

“Yeah, the All Directions gallery, up in—”

“The All Directions gallery!” Zayn echoes. It’s only been the biggest news for months, the opening of the new gallery. Zayn’s pored over news of it, of its owner and how they’re apparently looking for new talent.

“So you’ve heard of it?” Harry asks, grinning. “You want to go?”

Zayn looks at him, with his casual smile on as he eats more of his breakfast. He wants to go. But—he knows Harry’s being nice, just inviting the artist he happens to be hooking up with to the opening of the hottest new gallery. But Zayn doesn’t go to gallery openings. That’s not Zayn’s world, of high-powered clients and advertising firms and suits. Zayn’s tacky red restaurant button downs and paint-splattered t-shirts because he can’t afford new ones. Zayn’s ramen noodles, not caviar or whatever they have at the opening, whatever Harry eats at things like this. He knows how much he won’t fit into Harry’s world like that, and he doesn’t want Harry to see that, no matter how much he wants to be there. Wants to be there with Harry.

“Um, like, I’ll see. I think Louis mentioned something that night actually. But maybe.”

“I’ll text you the details anyway. If you can.” Harry tells him, easily, because it doesn’t matter to him, and takes another bite of their omelet. “Did I tell you about how Liam almost groped the client during a pitch?” he asks, through the mouthful, and Zayn shakes his head.

“On purpose?”

“No! Well, I don’t think so.” Harry hums, his brows drawing together, but then he shakes his head. “No, he wouldn’t, he loves Sophia. And the guy was old enough to be his grandfather. Sick man, though, he was showing us pictures of what he used to get up to in the old days, and there was this dog…” Zayn smiles down at his omelet as he listens to Harry ramble, about his day at the office, about the pitch he’s brainstorming for. Zayn tries to be a decent sounding board, even though the fuck does he know, but he suggests a few things that has Harry grinning at him, his dimples deep in his cheeks, and hooking his foot casually around Zayn’s ankle.  

Zayn leaves after breakfast, because he needs to get home for the afternoon shift, and he doesn’t want to intrude farther on Harry. Harry walks him to the door, kisses him before he leaves, long and slow and tempting, until Zayn could almost push him back inside. Instead, he kisses him back, then lets the door close behind him. It’s only when he’s outside the building properly, where Harry definitely won’t see him, that he allows himself to lean against the wall, press a hand to his lips as he ignores the people eying him and his scruff as they walk past. You don’t fall in love with your fuckbuddy, he reminds himself, like he does every time he leaves Harry’s. You don’t.

He takes a long, deep breath, then heads towards the bus stop for the long ride downtown.

////

“Where were you?” Louis whistles, as Zayn lets himself into their apartment. It’s always a bit of shock coming from Harry’s, to come into their cramped technically one bedroom apartment, where they’ve managed to jam the old couch Zayn’s parents gave him and a TV into the tiny part of the living room that isn’t marked off by a curtain as Louis’s room. It’d probably be better if they cleaned up once in a while, Zayn can admit, stepping over four separate pairs of shoes, but still. It’s a far cry from sweeping views and purposefully open plans. “Did you leave with that guy?”

“I was at Harry’s.” Zayn drops onto the couch, then leans over so he can rest his head on Louis’s thigh, bring his legs up onto the couch.

“Zayn…”

“It’s fine.” It is. Zayn knows what it is, and it’s fine. “He asked me to go to a gallery opening Monday.”

“As a date?”

“Louis…”

“What? He asked you to an event. That’s datish.”

“That’s not what we are.” Zayn would be a lot more annoyed at Louis if he wasn’t petting his hair gently. “He’s just nice, yeah? He knows it’s something I’d like.”

“So he asked you to it. Specifically.” Louis snorts. “I still think you’re selling it short. You’ve been fucking for what, nine months?”

“Almost eleven.” Zayn wishes he didn’t know that offhand. “But that’s all. Doesn’t mean anything. I’ve fucked plenty of people I didn’t want to date.”

“Did you make them breakfast? And invite them to gallery openings?” Louis presses. He always does this, and Zayn doesn’t get it, why he makes it hurt more. Shouldn’t Louis be on his side? “I just don’t get why you don’t see that it’s not just fucking.”

“Because why would it be?” Zayn demands, sitting up so he can wave a hand around the room. “I’m a fucking failed starving artist who’s actually just a waiter. He’s a trust fund baby who’s already a star at his firm. What would he give a damn about me?”

Louis’s eyebrows are raised, but his jaw is set. “Maybe because you’re an awesome person and he’s not a fucking idiot or a horrible snob so he can see that? Zayn—”

“No.” Zayn can’t do this. Not now. He needs time to recover. “It’s whatever it is. I doubt I’ll even go. How was your night?”

Louis’s face changes all at once, going sort of pinched and sort of soft, and Zayn’s distracted from his own woes by a gleeful grin. “That good?”

“You know that girl who’s been coming in to the store a lot lately? The cute brunette? She was there. And she’s—I mean, she’s pretty cool, you know?” Louis tries to play it off, but Zayn knows better than that. “She went home to feed her cat, but I think she’s coming back, if that’s okay? Want her to meet you.”

“That serious?” Zayn teases. Louis doesn’t blush, but he grimaces, so it’s basically the same. “Everything’s looking up for you, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” Louis mutters, but he’s grinning. “Now go shower. Need you to make a good impression. But not too good. Do we have that paper bag around anywhere to put over your face?”

Zayn laughs, falling back into Louis as he blathers on. This is where he belongs. And he’s okay with that. Even if it means he’ll never fit into Harry’s world.

////

Cora, Louis’s new girl, is pretty sick. She’s got a good sense of humor, seems more amused by Louis than anything, successfully shuts him down twice in the first few hours Zayn knows her, which immediately makes him less skeptical about how good she’ll be for Louis. And she’s got a cat which she shows Zayn a million pictures of, which Zayn also takes as a good sign. But he can only take so much of it, and of how they’re holding hands and stealing glances at each other, before he excuses himself and heads back into his room.

The blank canvas he bought last week instead of going home to see his family is leaning on the easel by the window. Zayn gives it a long look, then sighs. He needs to paint. If he’s not painting, then he’s not even a starving artist, he’s just a waiter with a fancy arts degree his parents paid for despite barely being able to afford it. So he sits down at the easel, and starts to paint.

He paints until it’s time for his shift, when Louis shoves a sandwich into his hands and pushes him out the door. Zayn retorts by making kissy faces at him until Cora’s cracking up and Louis’s scowling. Work is as bad as it ever is. The customers aren’t all horrible, but one table leaves a fucking seven percent tip and another talks loudly about how slow the service was even though it fucking wasn’t; Claire makes a honest newbie’s mistake and Jamal yells at her, and she’s too nice so she almost starts to cry, so Zayn has to stand up for her then Jamal snaps at him and tells him to take the table of rich assholes instead.

By the time it’s done, he’s exhausted. He checks his phone, and there’s a text from Harry—the address and time or the gallery opening, and a _hope to see you there, hope work isn’t too bad!_

When Zayn gets home, the curtains to Louis’s room are closed, but he can hear a girl’s giggling behind it, and Louis’s quiet voice. It’s not even sex. Zayn could deal with sex, that would be fine. He knows how to go into his room and play music until he can’t hear it, or, if it gets too bad, he can go crash on someone else’s floor, or even call Harry, if it’s early enough or a weekend. But this—listening to it start, to the excitement of a relationship, of the shy affection in her smiles and how Louis looks at her like he’s amazed she’d look twice at him…

He’s happy for Louis. He is. He’s doing so well. But Zayn stares at the useless canvases piled in his room, thinks of Harry in his far away apartment looking down on the rest of the city from his tower, and fuck it. He strips out of his uniform, pulls on jeans and a dark sweatshirt, and grabs his backpack of spray paints and his skateboard before he leaves again.

He finds a nice patch of wall he’d noticed on a bus ride from Harry’s earlier. Usually he plans more than this, but this is fast and a little sloppy, a little desperate. It’s a more crowded place than he’d usually risk, but he can’t care right now. What does he have to lose if he does get arrested?

When it’s done, though, he’s almost happy with it. With the jagged lines in red and black and purple, blood and bruises and desperation and anger and love, with the way it stands out against the pale grey of the concrete like a wound no one will be able to ignore. CAN YOU SEE ME NOW?

Zayn looks at it for a long minute, at the letters and the lines and the words they make. Somehow, he hadn’t known—hadn’t realized it was this much in him, not until he sees it out on a wall. That’s often the way with him, that he can’t quite make sense of his emotions until they’re on paper or a wall or in ink. But fuck, he wants to be seen. Wants his art to be seen, wants Harry to see him as more than just the guy he’s fucking, wants the world to see him and know he’s there, that he couldn’t just disappear with no one to miss him but his family and Louis.

He gets back late, but Louis’s in the kitchen, making tea. He raises his eyebrows at Zayn when he comes in, but he doesn’t say anything, even though Zayn knows he worries he’ll have to bail Zayn out sometime. “All good?”

“Cora still here?”

“She’s asleep.”

“Tired her out?”

“You could say that.” Louis waggles his eyebrows. “Nah, but. It’s good.”

“Yeah.” Zayn takes a deep breath. He wants this. He can. “Do you, like—do you really think Harry might—that he might want more?”

“Yes, you fucktard.” Louis rolls his eyes. “I’ve thought so since the first time he picked you up.”

Zayn nods. He’s not sure, can’t believe like Louis does, because Louis sees him with a friend’s eye, with the eye of someone who loves him and is right there next to him, who doesn’t see all the fault lines in him. But he can’t not do anything. “Do you—like, I’ll need a suit, right? That’s what people wear.”

Louis grins, and puts down the tea to lunge at him, hug him tight. “I’ll get you a suit,” He promises into Zayn’s neck. “Just—I want you to be happy.”

“Me too.” Zayn hugs him back. “I’m glad you are happy.” He is. And Zayn will be. Somehow. It’s possible, Louis could be right. That does happen occasionally.

////

Zayn refuses to adjust his clothes as he stands outside the gallery. He and Louis hadn’t managed to get together a suit, but in the end Zayn decided that was best. He’s not going to be someone he isn’t, and any suit he could afford would pale in the face of what everyone else was wearing. So he’s in his nicest pair of jeans and a leather jacket over a crisp white shirt. Cora had declared him stunning, laughing when Louis had made a hurt face, and he did look good, Zayn agreed. He might not measure up to designer clothes, but he looks good in his.

And he’ll—maybe Harry will see. See that he can be here. That they could be more.

He can do this. And more than that, he wants to. Wants to go in and see what’s in this gallery, wants to go in and see Harry, to see Harry smile at him and give him the hungry look he gives when he’s thinking about how to get Zayn’s clothes off as soon as he can, and then also maybe just to hold hands or something. Real couple things. He might not have texted Harry he was coming, in case he chickened out, but he wants this.

He keeps that in his mind, and opens the door. The interior is crisp, all white and metal, but it’s airy rather than uninviting, nothing in it taking away from the art on the walls. It’s good taste, Zayn thinks, and tries to stop himself from jumping to imagining what it would be like to have some of his stuff on these walls. He declines to give his coat at the coat check, because the leather jacket at least gives him an edge and he honestly can’t spare the cash to tip the tired looking girl behind the counter with more than a sympathetic smile, and slips into the main room.

He doesn’t see Harry, but he sees—fuck, a lot of people. Maybe he hadn’t thought this through. There are a lot of people, all in groups looking at the art, and they all give off that unconscious air of affluence Zayn’s come to recognize from the restaurant. He just—he doesn’t fit here, in his scrounged clothes that don’t cost as much as one of these people’s left shoes. They all probably have real jobs, make real money, could buy the art on the wall. Zayn should just leave now—except no. He’s going to find Harry. He’s going to see if it can be…something.

Now if he could just find Harry. He stands on his tiptoes, but he doesn’t see Harry in the crowd. He should circulate, he supposes, look at the frankly amazing art that’s displayed here, but will it look weird doing it alone?

“Zayn?” It’s not Harry’s voice, but no one else would know him. Zayn turns warily to face the person talking to him, and no, he definitely doesn’t know the blonde in the designer jeans and button down, grinning at him like he’s their new best friend.

“Yeah.” Zayn crosses his arms defensively. “Who’re you?”

If the guy sees Zayn’s defensiveness, he doesn’t respond to it. “I’m Niall. I’m a friend of Harry’s.” He sticks out his hand. Zayn looks at it, but he can’t see any ulterior motives, and there’s something about Niall that just seems forthright. “Good to meet you at last. Harry said you might come, asked me to keep an eye out for you. Well, he said to keep an eye out for a dark haired guy who’s the prettiest man you’ve ever seen, but that’s the same thing.”

Zayn can’t help his grin at the praise, and at Niall’s easy chatter. “Yeah?”

“Well, he wasn’t lying.” Niall grins again, and even if there’s nothing flirtatious in it, it’s still friendly. Just having someone acting friendly towards him is such a relief, Zayn can feel himself relaxing. Just having some sort of anchor here. “I hope you haven’t been here long?”

“Nah, like. Just got here. Have you seen Harry?”

“He’s here somewhere.” Niall stands on his tiptoes to look too, but he’s about Zayn’s height, so it doesn’t work well. “Dunno where he got to. We’ll find him. Did you get food yet?”

“I already—”

“No, get the food,” Niall tells him confidently, leading him around the edges of the room towards the food. “Always get the food at these things, it’s always delicious. Never enough of it, but that’s receptions.” He supervises Zayn taking three canapés he thinks he can identify, and then loads up a plate of his own. Zayn has no idea what’s on most of his plate, but Niall looks excited about it. “Okay, now we can go find Haz.”

By find Harry, apparently Niall means circle the room. He seems to know everyone, at least to say hi, but he keeps on looking back to check for Zayn, making sure Zayn’s next to him. It makes it easier, having someone like that. Who doesn’t seem to notice that Zayn’s jeans aren’t designer, that nothing about him is designer, that he doesn’t add to Niall’s stories of working at the marketing firm with Harry at all.

“Wait. Rochelle!” He stops in front of a black woman slightly older than either of them in an elegant black gown, who smiles at Niall like she’s known him forever. “Rochelle, meet Zayn. Zayn, Rochelle. She’s the owner of the gallery.”

“What? Oh.” With nowhere else to do it, Zayn wipes his hands awkwardly on his pants before he holds out his hand. Fuck. He probably looks so unsophisticated, not like someone who should be here, certainly not like anyone whose art might one day be here. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. It’s, like. An amazing gallery.”

“No ma’ams here,” she tells him, turning that smile on him. “Not from a friend of Niall’s. Nice to meet you too.”

“He’s Harry’s—”

“A friend of Harry’s,” Zayn inserts. He doesn’t want to know what Niall was going to say.

“Yeah,” Niall agrees, with just a little bit of a knowing glint to his smile. “He’s a friend of Harry’s, and he’s a sick artist.” Zayn shoots Niall a quick look. He didn’t remember saying anything about being an artist himself.

“Really?” That gets Rochelle’s interest a little more, obviously, her eyes perking up. “Anything I would know?”

“No.” Zayn can’t help it, he grabs his wrist, his nails digging in. “Not yet. I’m still, like, it’s still a bit of a work in progress.”

She laughs, lightly, like it’s not a humiliating thing to say. “I’ve never known an artist who wasn’t,” she tells him, putting a hand on his arm, over his own. “I—” she glances around, then at Niall, who winks at her. “Let’s get away from these plebes and talk,” she tells him. Zayn can feel his eyes widen, and he looks at Niall, who nods encouragingly. He has no idea what the fuck is happening, but he’s not passing up something like this.

“Um, yeah. Of course.”

Away is just into a slightly quieter corner, but it’s enough. Zayn is actually talking to a gallery owner. It won’t come to anything, and Zayn knows it’s just because Niall smiled at her, but he’ll take it. It’s something, at last.

“These things are horrible,” she says, once they’re a little ways away. “You have to have them so people will buy, but most of them don’t know anything about art. Did you study it, or are you just flying by the seat of your pants?” She smiles, inviting him in on the joke.

“Both?” Zayn swallows, lifts his chin. “I studied art at university, but I’ve been drawing and painting forever. Which, like, I’m sure everyone tells you.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true. Do you have any pictures or anything? I can give it a look.”

“You really don’t want to mingle, do you?” Zayn asks, before he can think better of it, but instead of making fun of his inability to make proper small talk she just laughs again.

“I really don’t,” she agrees. He pulls out his phone.

If there’s one thing Zayn can do, it’s talk about art, especially his art, and Rochelle’s easy to talk to. She’s like one of his professors but better, commenting but not critiquing. She doesn’t scoff at the strong lines of his art, the style some people had called too cartoony, just nods and makes encouraging noises that are better than anything Zayn’s heard in a long time.

Of course, they’re interrupted before long, descended upon by two women and a man, sparkling with understated jewelry. “Rochelle, darling!” One of the women says, her voice just high-pitched enough to be annoying. “This is quite the success! A lovely place.”

If Rochelle thinks it’s annoying, she doesn’t let on, just smiles. Zayn doesn’t get it, how she can do that. “Thank you, Mrs. Anderson,” she replies, brushing her lips against both of the woman’s cheeks. “Thank you for coming.”

“We couldn’t miss it. You have exquisite taste,” the man, a short, burly man of the type that would calculate tip to the last cent, tells her. “You need to tell me who’s the next big thing.”

“That is the goal,” she agrees. Zayn could probably escape now. No one’s acknowledged him, it wouldn’t be rude, he could escape and find Harry. He’s already edging backwards when the other woman focuses on him.

“And who’s this?” she asks, her voice a little bit of a purr. Her fingers drum over her bared collarbone, probably to draw attention to the scooped neckline under her locket.

“One of the flock of associates you’ve managed to attract?” the man chuckles, “Luring all the women in, are you, Rochelle?”

“I do what I can,” she laughs. “Zayn, please, excuse me. I need to go show Mr. Anderson around.”

“Yeah. Definitely. It was, like, great to talk to you,” Zayn tells her, and she smiles before she slides an arm through the man’s arm, leads him away. The first woman follows after them, but the second stays, giving Zayn an odd look, half flirtatious, half confused.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” she asks. “We might have met at the Clements’ do?”

“Um, no, I don’t think so.” He can’t place her, but she is vaguely familiar. He can’t figure out if it’s because she’s a type, or because he did see her around. “I don’t get out much.”

“A pity, that. What do you do?”

“I’m—I’m an artist.” It’s not a lie, he is. It’s what he is, not a waiter, that’s just what he does. It has to be. Or else—

And fuck. As he thinks about the restaurant, he realizes where he knows her from. She came into the restaurant a few days ago, one of the group of women who had leered at him, who he had flirted with for a tip. Who she didn’t even remember, because what was a waiter to her, even a hot waiter? No one worth thinking about. No one worth seeing. No one worth being here, in her world. In Harry’s world.

“Sorry, I—I have to go.” He can’t be here, can’t be near her, can’t risk her recognizing him. He ducks away before she can reply, back into the crowd of people. The crowd of people who think he’s an associate probably, despite his clothes, despite how he has no idea what to say to anyone or how to move through this crowd or even how to eat the fucking food. Why the fuck is he here? He’s not one of these rich, successful people, he’s someone who waits on them.

And just like that, he sees Harry. He’s standing near a painting, but he’s not looking at it. Instead, he’s smiling at a guy next to him, his dimples deep in his cheeks. The guy’s about their age, and handsome, sturdily built with the sort of muscles Zayn can see from here and a strong jaw, features like David Beckham. Zayn knows he’s hot, knows Harry thinks he’s hot, but this guy—he looks like he should be here, wears his suit like he’s born to it, and Harry’s grinning at him, coy, and he’s laughing back. The other guy looks nice, too, which is worse—there’s something in his eyes, in the softness of his smile.

He holds out a finger, points it at Harry like an accusation, and Harry leans forward and bites at it, smirking. The guy pulls it back, making a face, and Harry must say something cheeky because he chuckles, smiling fondly at Harry.

Well. There’s that. There it is. Zayn shouldn’t be here. Clearly, Harry doesn’t want more. Not if when Zayn’s not there he flirts with fit coworkers, with people in his world. Zayn’s just someone to fuck when there’s no one else. He doesn’t belong here.

He turns and leaves without another word.

////

Louis’s not home when he gets there, probably out at Cora’s. Of course he’d think there’d been hope for Zayn, he’s stuck in his honeymoon phase bubble where everyone’s in love, he’s looking at the world through rosy glasses that make everything happy. He’s got a part in the play and a girlfriend and everything’s going well for him. He doesn’t understand that Zayn’s not that. That Zayn’s life isn’t that.

Zayn strips out of his clothes, throws them on the floor, and pulls on ripped jeans and an old t-shirt, then tugs out a new canvas. This isn’t for city walls, for everyone to see; this is his own private pain and humiliation, the dashing of his own hopes. He paints and he paints. You don’t fall in love with your fuckbuddy, he tells himself, over and over. He’d told himself. He’d known. You don’t fall in love with your fuckbuddy, not one like Harry, who would never go for someone like Zayn. You don’t fall in love with your fuckbuddy, and Zayn should never have thought otherwise, never have thought they were more, because of course they weren’t.

He’s calm when he’s done, when he can look at the canvas, the slashes of color, the bright green among the swirls of other colors, the ones that are all too clear. It’s all right there, right there on the canvas. The love he shouldn’t feel, the hurt, the pain. He knows.

And he knows what he has to do. He can’t do this anymore. He can tell himself not to fall in love with his fuckbuddy all he wants, but it hasn’t worked. And if he can’t make the fuckbuddies something more, if that’s a stupid idea born of pointless hope, then, well. He has to go the other way.

He picks up his phone to see if Louis’s texted him, and there is a text, but it’s not from Louis. It’s from hours ago, about when Zayn got home.

_Are you coming? I’d love to see you here!_

Yeah, Zayn’s sure he would. But that’s not fair. It’s not Harry’s fault Zayn’s made this more, that Zayn broke the cardinal rule of fuckbuddies, that Zayn forgot what they were. It’s not Harry’s fault.

 _Sorry_ Zayn replies, _something came up. Hope it was fun x_

He turns off his phone, and buries his face in the pillows so he can sleep.

////

He doesn’t stop all at once. Zayn knows he should, just quit cold turkey, but he can’t. He just can’t, because it’s still Harry, and he still touches Zayn and makes him feel things Zayn can’t get anywhere else, still smiles at Zayn like he’s the sun, is still just so very Harry, all the time. Because Zayn still wants to see him, so much. But he does try to start weaning himself off. So the first time Harry texts after that night, Zayn goes, changes into a t-shirt so he might not smell totally of oil after his shift, gets on the bus, and he grabs at Harry desperately, presses himself into him, takes this part of him he can have.

But after, he forces himself to stay awake. He gets up out of the massive bed, with Harry watching naked from the pillows, and pulls on his boxers.

“Are you going home?” Harry asks, quietly. He’s tracing at the swirls of color on the bedspread, only sort of looking at Zayn.

“Yeah, thought I would.” Zayn voice is raspy from when Harry had fucked his throat earlier. He digs his nails into his wrist. “I’ve got an early shift tomorrow.”

“You could stay. It’s late,” Harry suggests, with a smile. “I can drive you home bright and early tomorrow. I have to be in to work early anyway.”

God, Zayn wants to. Wants to crawl back into the bed, cuddle close to Harry and pretend.

But that didn’t get him anything more than a broken heart, and the shock of the fall back to reality. “No thanks,” he tells Harry, trying to smile back at him. “It’s out of your way. And it’s not that late.”

Harry’s brow furrows, and he bites at his lip, but he nods. “If you’re sure.”

Like usual, he follows Zayn to the door. He hesitates with his knob on the door, before opening it, though. “Zayn….”

“Yeah?” Is this where he tells Zayn the guy from the opening is his boyfriend, or will be, and that they have to stop?

Harry’s mouth works, but then he shakes his head. “Never mind. Text me when you get home so I know you’re there safe.”

“Yeah, ‘course.” He lets Harry draw him in for a goodbye kiss, and he melts into it, because Harry always makes him melt. “Night.”

“Night, Zayn.”

Zayn doesn’t hear the door close behind him, but it must. There’d be no reason for Harry to watch him go.

////

And that’s what it is. Zayn doesn’t let himself stay over anymore. No more cozy breakfasts, no more of the things Harry does because he’s nice but that make it so easy for Zayn to pretend. They’re just fuckbuddies, so they just fuck.

Of course, that means Zayn’s at home more. Except Louis and Cora are there, and they never kick Zayn out, but it’s just—Zayn doesn’t want to see them, holding hands and being all honeymoon at each other. Louis had been ready to kick Harry’s ass when Zayn had told him what happened, and he’d let Zayn cry on his shoulder for a while, because he’s a good friend, but Zayn doesn’t want to bring him down. He’s loving rehearsals, and his new girlfriend, and that’s great. Zayn just can’t see it too often, or he’ll forget that.

So he picks up more shifts at the restaurant, because at least he can make money out of all this. And no one at the restaurant knows what happened with anything else, even if Claire and some of the others ask if he’s okay. They don’t press when he shrugs and tells them yeah. Jamal yells at him all the same, but it feels good to yell back, like he’s getting some of his emotions out like that, the emotions he can’t give to Harry, can’t tell Louis.

On the bus ride back from Harry’s one late night, he sees that they painted over his tag. It’s the risk of street art, Zayn’s long since accepted that, but still. It feels fitting. No one will see him now.

////

“Order up!” Jamal yells, and Zayn trays the order, carries it out to the group of men at table fifteen. They don’t look up as he hands it out, which is overall better than most other tables Zayn’s had tonight. It’s certainly better than the screaming child, and the woman who sent her steak back three times until the sous chef was crying and Jamal was ready to go out and scream at her himself, and worlds better than the man who’d looked at Zayn’s tattoos and, more, the color of his skin, and spoken very, very slowly, like he’d assumed Zayn couldn’t speak English. So yeah. Zayn will take people ignoring him over that.

He grabs the check on ten, checks in on eleven—“Every-thing-is-good!” he enunciates, and Zayn clenches his fists rather than retort—and heads back to the kitchen.

He takes a second to lean against the wall. He’s exhausted. He’s halfway through the second shift of a double, and he can feel how he’s starting to smell of oil and spices, and his hair’s drooping and he is going to burn this shirt. And it doesn’t help that he hadn’t managed to paint anything last night, had just stared at a canvas and felt his stomach rumble because it was most of his food money, and there was nothing. Of course. Why would he get inspiration when there was no point to it? And Harry hadn’t texted, but that made sense too, because he was probably with that guy from the gallery, and he was done with Zayn and forgetting him, moving on to people who fit him.

“Corner table again,” Claire tells him, ducking in. Zayn blinks.

“If it’s the same guy as last time, tell him to fuck off, I’m busy, and he should be at rehearsal.”

“I don’t even remember who that was, but it’s a group.” She shrugs. “Why do all the hot guys request you? I’m single too.”

“Fuck.” Zayn pushes his hair back out of his face. It’s been a fucking long day, and if Louis brought in his friends and they all order an appetizer and then don’t tip him, he’s going to kill him. Or at least, steal his weed. “Okay.”

“More tips,” she suggests with a smile, and Zayn tries his own smile.

“If they tip at all.”

She nods. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, babe. You too.” They exchange commiserating looks, and Zayn grabs his pad to go over to the corner table.

Somehow, it doesn’t register until he gets there. Maybe it’s because he’s tucked in the back, maybe Zayn’s brain’s trying to protect him, he doesn’t know. All he knows, is it doesn’t register until Harry’s grinning up at him, waving a little sheepishly, and chirping, “Hi!”

Zayn’s mind still doesn’t quite process. Harry’s here, at the restaurant. Harry’s here, and so is the guy from the opening, across from him, looking at Zayn with curious eyes—and so are a pretty dark haired girl and Niall, but Zayn barely registers them. Harry’s here, requesting Zayn fucking wait on him and this guy he flirted with, who’s probably his boyfriend. Making Zayn fucking serve him.

“What the fuck?” he spits, before he can think. “What the actual fuck, Harry?”

Harry’s smile’s falling, but Zayn can’t wait. Can’t wait to hear whatever explanation he might come up with for why this is even remotely okay, why he’s trying to torture Zayn like this, why he’s rubbing it in. Why he didn’t even think how horrible this might be. Zayn spins on his heels and stalks back through the room, back into the kitchen.

“I have to go home.” He throws his pad on the table.

“Your shift isn’t over, Malik.” Jamal doesn’t look up, keeps sautéing some shrimp.

“I’m sick, I don’t fucking care, you can fire me. I’m going home.”

Something in his voice must work, because Jamal looks up, and sees his face, how wild-eyed he probably is.

“Fine then.” He snaps. “You’re not getting paid for your full shift.”

“Fine.”

“And you get all the shit tables tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

“Fucking go.”

“Good fucking night!” Zayn shouts back, and storms out the back. He doesn’t look to see if Harry’s car is still in the parking lot, the ridiculously massive Range Rover he’d once fucked Zayn in the backseat of just because they could. Instead, he storms home.

Louis’s not there, of course. Louis’s probably out with his girlfriend or enjoying his success, because he’s got all that shit, and Zayn’s got nothing. Some canvases no one wants, and a fuckbuddy who’s apparently not as nice as Zayn had thought. Who wants to show Zayn just how different they are, who wants to watch Zayn suffer because he can, because he’s the sort of person who can request waiters in fancy restaurants and Zayn’s the one who’s requested.

He pulls a dark sweatshirt on, grabs his paints. It’s a stupid move, because it’s so early and he’s furious and probably reckless, but he doesn’t care. He needs to get out, needs to get everything in him out.

The wall’s still blank when he gets there. He pulls out the same reds and purples, the dark wounded colors, but it’s not that anymore. It’s festered now, greens and yellows, just a roiled pain and hurt and under it all just disappointment, that he’s nothing. That there’s nothing there, nothing anyone sees, that Harry doesn’t even see him enough to know how fucking out of line going to the restaurant was, that no one wants to see anything of him. That he could disappear and no one would notice.

He doesn’t bother looking at it when it’s done. He knows what it says, knows what it means, and it doesn’t make anything better. It’s just there. It’s just true. NOTHING LEFT TO SEE, it says, and Zayn doesn’t need to see it to know.

////

Louis’s home when Zayn gets back, Cora nowhere in sight.

“What the fuck were you doing?” he demands, whirling when the door closes. His hair’s messed up, like he’s been grabbing it in his worry. “It’s barely eleven, what the fuck were you thinking? Why didn’t you pick up your phone? I thought you were arrested and like the idiot you are you’d used up your phone call making some heartfelt confession to Harry or something and this is why you answer your phone!”

Zayn drops his bag on the floor. “Harry came to the restaurant today.”

“So fucking what? You answer your phone.” Louis kicks the bag aside to grab Zayn’s arms, shaking him a little when he doesn’t look at him. “You answer your fucking phone, and you don’t do shit like this, okay? I don’t care if Harry doesn’t love you or if he does. You don’t fucking scare me like this.”

He’s glaring at Zayn, all the passion and anger he can summon, staring at Zayn like he could set him on fire with his mind alone. Like he wants to, or like he’d set the world on fire for Zayn.

“Fuck, I love you, Lou.”

It shocks Louis enough that some of the anger recedes, and he smiles. Zayn has to hug him then, breaking out of his hold to wrap his arms around Louis and hold him tight. He has this. That’s worth something, that’s worth plenty, that he has this, he has someone who sees him. Who cares about him.

Louis hugs him back, holding on just as tightly, like Zayn’s seen him holding his sisters. “Love you too, asshole.”

Zayn lifts his head out of Louis’s neck. He’s not crying. He’s not. He’s just, fuck, he’s pretty sick of this emotional rollercoaster. “I’ve been pretty horribly jealous of you.”

“You think?” Louis snorts. “Everyone should be jealous of me. But you’ll get your chance, bro. It’s just a break, yeah? You’ll get it. And who knows if mine’ll pan out.”

Zayn’s not sure if he believes him. But it’s nice to hear it. “Want to smoke? I got some yesterday.”

“I think we have to, after that moment,” Louis agrees. Zayn rests his head on Louis’s shoulder on the couch, as he rolls the joint. Harry’s still fucking out of line, and there’s still that feeling, at the bottom of him, roiling and hurt, the purple and red and green and black of the wall, that fear. But he’s not alone.

////

Harry doesn’t text him that night. He doesn’t text him the next morning either. It’s not that unusual, and anyway. Zayn can’t let himself care. He’d kept himself afloat by thinking none of this was Harry’s fault, that he was being nice about Zayn staying over and shit, but maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe Harry’d known what he was doing. He can’t think of any other explanation of why Harry had brought his friends to the restaurants, to see Zayn’s humiliation. So Zayn’s glad Harry doesn’t text, because he’s not sure what he’d say back.

And Jamal follows through on his promise about the shit tables, so it’s not like Zayn has a lot of time to think about it. He picks up the beginning of Claire’s shift to make up for abandoning her last night, and he’s kept so busy he doesn’t have time to notice time going by, let alone Harry’s silence.

Finally, though, it’s over, and he’s heading out when Jamal grabs his arm. Zayn tenses, readying all his responses for any sort of accusations Jamal might throw at him. But Jamal just gives him a long look. “Fuck them,” he says at last.

“Pardon?” That…wasn’t what Zayn expected.

“Them.” Jamal nods out at the restaurant. “Fuck all of them. You’re better than any of them.”

“Um. Thanks?” Zayn’s not entirely sure how to take that, but it’s…sweet, even if Jamal’s glaring when he says it, the same as always. Or he thinks it.

“Even if you’re still a lazy worker,” Jamal warns, letting go of him. “I could replace you in a fucking heartbeat.”

“I’d be gone sooner,” Zayn retorts, easy as usual, and leaves. That was. Weird, he decides, is the word for it. Weird. But yeah, sweet, he thinks. Underneath it all.

He’s on his way phone when his phone rings. Not many people call him, except his mother—everyone else knows to text him, because who knows if he has his phone on him—so he’s a little anxious when he picks up. He hates talking on the phone.

“Hi?”

“Hi, is this Zayn?” comes an unfamiliar woman’s voice.

“Yeah, this is him. Who’s this?”

“This is Rochelle, we met at the gallery opening a few days ago?”

Zayn skids to a halt. Fuck. Fucking hell. “Um, yeah. I remember you. What’s up?”

What’s up. That’s going to impress her. His nails are digging into his wrist, and he narrowly resists the urge to bang his head on the stone of the wall behind him.

But she laughs. “Glad to know I made an impression. As for what’s up, well, this is a little random, and I hope you don’t mind me just calling you out of the blue. But I’ve had a bit of an issue with one of the artists at the gallery, and I really did like your work from what you showed me. How’d you feel about bringing some of it in for real, for me to take a look?”

Zayn’s pretty sure his heart stops beating. “Really?”

She laughs again. “Yes, really. It’s not a guarantee, of course, of anything. But I’d love to see it.”

“Yeah definitely, whenever you want me to come in, I’ll make it work.” It’s—this is bigger than anything, this is something, even if it’s not a promise of it. He’d almost forgotten about Rochelle, about how encouraging she’d been, in the face of what had happened afterwards. But—she’d meant it. She’s giving him a chance.

“How does Wednesday sound? Around three?”

Zayn runs over his schedule. He’s on shift then, but he can trade. He’ll fucking trade for anything. “Yeah, definitely, I’ll be there. The gallery?”

“Yes. And…” Here it is. Here’s the but. Zayn’s heart’s beating too fast now. Here’s where she takes it back. “This is a little awkward to ask. But I’ve seen some street art around, and I couldn’t help but notice the style is very similar to yours. It’s also very impressive. So if the artist were to be interested in doing some more legal installations, or if you thought you could in some way replicate his or her style, that would be something I would potentially be interested in. Hypothetically, the artist could bring in cropped pictures.”

Zayn’s not sure if he’s going to laugh or cry. Not sure what he feels, but it’s nothing he needs to get out on the wall, on paper, nothing he needs to understand to enjoy. “Yeah, um, hypothetically that could be possible.”

“Good. I’ll see you Wednesday, then.”

“Yeah. Wednesday. Have a good day!” he remembers to add, before she leaves, and she chuckles and wishes him a good day too before she does hang up.

He’s pretty sure there’s no way it’s not a good day now. He—this is—this is it. This could be it, this could be everything, this could be him being an actual artist. Of people seeing him.

////

He’s not sure how he gets home, but he stops at the corner store to pick up a six-pack before he does, splurging a little to the second cheapest choice available. “Louis!” he calls, pushing the door open, “Lou, you here? We’re—what’re you doing here?”

Harry’s jumped to his feet, clearly from where he’s been sitting on the couch. On their crappy, third hand couch. Something in it doesn’t compute. Harry’s in one of the suits he wears to work, that hug his legs and shoulders and all of him like a second skin, and he’s in Zayn’s apartment. He’s on his couch. He’s seen—fuck, he’s seen all of this, where Zayn lives, how different it is from his place. This place Zayn’s been trying so hard to keep him away from, to keep him from remembering.

“Louis let me in,” Harry explains, matter-of-factly “He went to dinner with his girlfriend, I think, but he said I could stay. There was also a lot of swearing and threats, if it makes you feel better.”

“I’m still going to kill him.” Zayn lets the door close, then edges in. The euphoria’s gone, mostly, shocked out of him, but it’s a buzz under his skin, and it’s letting him be calm now, instead of lashing out. “What are you doing here, Harry?”

“I…” Harry runs a hand through his hair. He looks…unsure, in a way Zayn’s never seen him before, always so sure of himself and his place and his ambitions. But he’s biting his lip now, like he’s nervous. It makes Zayn frown to see it, even if he’s mad. “So, today at work, Niall asked me for your phone number, so he could give it to Rochelle. Which is awesome, of course, but when I asked why she wanted it, he said you’d really impressed her when you’d met at the gallery opening.” Harry fixes Zayn with a hard look, one Zayn can’t quite interpret. “Which you told me you didn’t go to.”

“Oh.” That does explain how she got his number. He hadn’t even thought of that. “Yeah, like, I did stop by. But you seemed busy.”

“Busy?” Harry repeats.

“Yeah, busy.” Zayn turns away, so he can go to the kitchen. He’s okay. He can deal with this. “I didn’t want to interrupt, and I couldn’t stay. Didn’t seem worth mentioning to you.”

“Didn’t seem—” Harry cuts himself off with a harsh breath. “I don’t know what you want from me, Zayn.”

“What I want from you?” Zayn snorts.

“Yes, what you want from me!” It’s loud and sharp, and angrier than Zayn’s ever heard Harry, even when he’s been annoyed before. Zayn can’t help turning, to see him in Zayn’s living room. He doesn’t look angry, necessarily. Just confused and tired, Zayn think. Zayn understands that feeling. “I give you space, and nothing happens. I try not giving you space, and you freak out and storm out of your work! I wait for things to evolve organically, and you don’t let them; I ask you out and you don’t tell me you were there? What the hell, Zayn!”

“Ask me out?” Zayn repeats, incredulous. He doesn’t know what the rest of that meant, but he knows this. “That wasn’t—what?”

“Of fucking course.” Harry grabs at his hair, pulls, frustrated. “Of fucking course you didn’t notice, just fucked right off and went and hooked up with someone else, probably.”

“I haven’t—” Zayn bristles. He’s not supposed to be on the defensive here. “That wasn’t asking me out! That was you being nice to the guy you’re fucking, it wasn’t a fucking candlelit dinner.”

“I’ve tried dinner! It didn’t take.” Harry’s cheeks are red, and Zayn doesn’t have any idea what he’s talking about, and he hadn’t wanted this now. Doesn’t even know what they’re fighting about, he just knows Harry’s here in his space he’d never thought he’d see, the places he’d tried to hide from him. That Harry’s come back to fight with him, and is accusing him of shit when he’s the one who played Zayn. “I’ve tried everything short of bloody spelling it out in neon lights, Zayn!”

“Well maybe you should have, because I have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you want to fuck? If not, you should leave.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Harry demands. Zayn swallows. He should say yes, he knows that, but he can’t bring himself to lie, not now. Not when it matters. Of course he can’t.

“I never want you to leave, but that’s what fuck buddies do,” Zayn spits, because it’s all he can do. His nails are digging into his wrist again. “They fuck and they leave. That’s what we are.”

“And I have tried to change that! Why is it so hard for you to believe I want more than that with you?”

“Why would you?” Zayn shouts, and there it is. There’s the ugly truth he’s been trying to hide. “Why would you want more with me? You’re you, and I’m a starving artist who’s never sold anything and probably never will, who still paints on canvases I bought with money I should have used for food! Why would you want more than that? Why would you want this?” He throws out his arms to encompass the room, the room Harry doesn’t fit in. The room that’s his, that’s where he belongs, cramped and second hand and a little musty smelling, littered with cheap take out and the random shit they’ve left there. “And this is all I am.”

Harry moves suddenly, and then he’s grabbing at Zayn’s arms, not tight or painful but fierce, holding him still so all Zayn can see are Harry’s eyes, wide and burning bright. “This is not all you are,” he says slowly, but it’s not like the man at the restaurant. It’s fierce and sure, like each syllable has weight. “I don’t know why you think I’m that snobby or that much of a dick that any of that shit would matter, but I see you Zayn. I’ve always seen you, there’s your answer to your tag’s question. I can see you now. Even if you can’t believe it, I’ve always seen you, and you’re not whatever you think you are, you’re so much more.”

Zayn blinks. He knows those words. “You—you saw that tag? You knew it was mine?”

Harry lets out a sigh, and he laughs a little, not a happy sound. It sounds wrong coming out of Harry’s mouth. “I always know when it’s your work, Zayn. I can see you in it. I just don’t know what to do with that.”

It matters. Harry’s seen it, seen the writing on the wall, and he hasn’t left. And he’s still here.

“I saw you flirting with that guy at the opening,” Zayn offers, in return. Or something. Because Harry’s seen him. Because Harry’s still holding tight to Zayn, because he said—because maybe—“I thought, like. He looked like he belonged, and I knew I didn’t.”

Harry’s forehead wrinkles. “Who—you mean Liam? My friend who I’ve told you about? Who’s happily engaged to Sophia?”

Well. It sounds stupid when he puts it that way. But the point is, “It’s not—like, it’s what he symbolized, though. I can’t be him. I don’t fit in your world.”

Harry shrugs. “You fit wherever you want to fit.”

He’s not getting it, is the problem. He can’t. He doesn’t see it, because he’s on the other side. “Harry, I wait on you at restaurants. You get waited on.”

“Who cares?” Harry asks, with another dismissive shrug. “I don’t care if you and Rochelle make a deal and you become world famous and I’m riding on your coattails, or if you never sell a painting and work in the restaurant your whole life, or hell, if you decide to quit and live off of my money. I don’t care. I—” He cuts himself off, but then he swallows, and straightens, looks Zayn right in the eye, like he’s seeing all of him. Not seeing through him, just seeing him, right there, in front of him. “I love you, Zayn, and I want more. I have since the start.”

Zayn’s whole body stops. “What?”

“I love you,” Harry says, firmly. “And I don’t want to just fuck anymore, if we ever did. I want more. I have since we started.”

“But—”

“But,” Harry cuts him off, before Zayn could protest that that wasn’t true, he knew it wasn’t, “You got up that first night and said it was fun and we should do it again, if I wanted to fool around sometimes. So I went for something casual, and waited for you to realize it was more.” He lets go of Zayn, steps back, and he’s more serious than Zayn’s ever seen him, looking at Zayn with an emotion Zayn doesn’t recognize in his gaze, not heat but more. “I’m done waiting. Do you want more? If you don’t, I’m leaving. I can’t do this anymore, it hurts too much to watch you leave.”

You don’t fall in love with your fuck buddy. Zayn knows this. He always has. You don’t fall in love with your fuck buddy, especially when they’re as different as Harry is from Zayn. He’s not good at it, but he knows the rule.

But Zayn might sell his paintings on Wednesday. He might get his paintings in a fucking gallery. He might be more than what he is now, he might be what he knows he can be. And even if it doesn’t happen Wednesday, even if Rochelle decides she doesn’t like his stuff after all—fuck them. He has people who love him, and who he matters to, and if the world doesn’t see him at least they do. That’s not different between him and Harry.

And Harry is watching him, his green eyes wide and inviting, not flinching away from Zayn’s space, from Zayn’s world. Wanting Zayn, with all the fault lines he sees.

Zayn can take a lesson when he sees it. And fuck them.

“Yeah,” he says, and lets go of his wrist to walk forward, to Harry. “Yeah. I do too. I mean, I love you, and I want more too.”

All the air seems to go out of Harry, and his eyes widen in what looks like surprise. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Zayn nods. He’s sure. “Yeah, I do.”

“Fucking finally.” Then Harry’s hands are on Zayn’s cheeks, his neck, his waist, everywhere, and his lips are against Zayn’s and maybe he’s romanticizing but it feels like they’ve never kissed like this, like their lives will end if they stop kissing, like it’s new and fresh and real. Zayn wraps his arm around Harry’s neck, rocks up so he can kiss him harder.

“God, Zayn.” Harry breaks the kiss only to mouth at Zayn’s neck, making a face when he hits the collar of Zayn’s uniform shirt, “Finally, god, I love you.” He pulls back for a second, so he can look straight at Zayn. “That means exclusivity. No one else.”

“Yeah, thanks, I know what a relationship is,” Zayn drawls, as Harry’s hands tighten on his hips. “And, like. There hasn’t been.”

“I’ve seen—”

“I’ve tried,” Zayn interrupts him, then kisses him again, with just enough teeth that Harry moans. “It always comes back to you.”

Harry’s grin is more smug than Zayn would like, but he guesses he deserves it. “I haven’t tried,” he admits. “Didn’t bother.” Zayn has to kiss him for that, because he hadn’t imagined—hadn’t ever conceived that that could be happening, that Harry would think that, would feel that. That he could.

Harry holds onto his hips and tries to back them towards a wall, but he steps on something that Zayn’s pretty sure is Louis’s sneaker, then hits the edge of the table and swears as Zayn tries not to laugh. “Which one is your bedroom, the curtained one or the non-curtained one?” Harry demands, his lip sticking out petulantly.

Zayn does laugh at that. He thinks he could laugh at anything. “The non-curtained one. Um.” He pauses outside the door. “It’s, like, it’s kind of a mess, and it’s—it’s not like your room, okay? Just, don’t expect that.”

“I don’t.” This time Harry does manage to back Zayn up, to pin him against the wall so Zayn doesn’t have to bother with a silly thing like balance when he could be kissing Harry more, when he could be stripping Harry of his jacket.

Harry bites at his neck, sucks to make what he knows is going to be a huge mark, and Zayn moans and his hips buck at the thought. “I want to fuck you in your bed,” Harry purrs, in Zayn’s ear. “Want to see you there, where you think you belong.”

Zayn groans, but, “Where I do belong,” he corrects. Harry has to understand that.

“No, I mean—” Harry’s nose wrinkles. “I mean a place where you aren’t uncomfortable.”

“Your bed’s pretty comfortable.”

“You know what I mean.” Harry nips at Zayn’s lip, in what Zayn thinks is supposed to be punishment. “Now, bed.”

“You’re such a demanding boyfriend,” Zayn retorts, and Harry’s smile could light the sun, for the second Zayn can see it before he kisses him again. It’s different than before, almost sweet, gentle in the way Harry cups his face.

It doesn’t stay that way for long. Zayn needs Harry in him, on him, anything, just needs Harry, because he didn’t think he’d get him and now he has him for real, and he needs to feel that. He fumbles for the doorknob as the kiss turns dirty again, Harry’s hips grinding against his so both their hard-ons rub against each other through two layers of fabric, and they stumble back through the door with their lips still attached. Harry tries to undo Zayn’s shirt like that too, but he’s definitely not coordinated enough and he keeps on stopping kissing Zayn to try, which isn’t worth anything, so Zayn bats his hands away to do it himself, except he starts on Harry’s because he’d rather have Harry shirtless. Harry retaliates by getting his hand down Zayn’s pants, which is much more distracting, as he palms at Zayn through his boxers.

“Fucking hell,” Zayn mutters, and finally gets Harry’s shirt off, shoving it off his arms so Harry has to let go briefly, then going to work on his own.

“Wait.”

Zayn blinks. “Wait?” He demands. He doesn’t want to fucking wait.

Harry blushes, but he’s firm. “I want to,” he insists, drawing his hand out of Zayn’s pants to work on the top button of his shirt. “We didn’t—I never really got to do this, before. We didn’t.”

“Yeah.” Zayn’s heart is doing something happy and painful beneath his ribs. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

Harry dimples at him, something innocent in it except for how it’s so not, and steps close. He starts to undo Zayn’s shirt, and he follows his fingers with his mouth, trailing lips and tongue over his chest, taking detours to spread his fingers over Zayn’s skin, to tweak at his nipple then sooth it with his tongue, just to feel. Zayn swears, and he thinks he’d fall backwards onto the bed if Harry didn’t have a grip on his shirt to keep him upright, as Harry explores achingly slow.

Zayn’s already mostly a mess by the time his shirt’s off, but mostly he wants to kiss Harry again, so he does, pulling him back to his feet to kiss him. Somehow, during the kiss, they end up on the bed, their hips rolling against each other as they kiss, and there is not enough skin, so Zayn goes for Harry’s pants. This time, Harry doesn’t insist on slow, squirming to help Zayn tug his pants off, then helping Zayn with his own until they’re both properly naked.

Harry pauses for a second, after Zayn’s kicked his boxers off at last, and there’s something soft in his gaze, despite where they are.

“What?” Zayn has to ask. He’s not self-conscious, never has been about his body, but something about Harry’s unrelenting stare gets to him.

“You’re just really beautiful,” Harry says, and the honesty hurts. “I thought telling you that before would break the rules.”

Zayn lets out a long breath, then he grabs Harry’s shoulders and rolls them, so he’s on top. “You’re beautiful,” he tells Harry, and watches him dimple. “You’re so beautiful, loveliest person I’ve ever seen, and I thought so in the club the first night and I’ve always thought so. Inside and out.”

“Zayn—” Zayn shuts him up with a kiss, then starts his own exploration, over every inch of Harry’s skin, every rise and valley. He already has it memorized, could draw it in his sleep, but he wants it again. He wants it always.

He kisses his way down Harry’s chest, down to his belly button then on, until he’s pressing his lips to Harry’s cock and watching his hips arch and his lips purse in the prettiest groan Harry’s ever seen.

“Fuck, Zayn…” he lets out, and Zayn licks up his cock again, to get the same noise. He knows how to suck Harry off by now, knows what gets him, so he knows how to draw it out too, to lick and suck and use his hands around Harry’s cock and his balls until Harry’s hips are jerky from the effort of not fucking Zayn’s mouth and Zayn’s grinding into the mattress, he’s so turned on just from watching Harry’s desperation.

“No, wait.” Harry taps at Zayn’s head, until he pulls off. “No, don’t want to come like this. I want to fuck you here.”

“Later.” Zayn licks his lips. He wants to finish what he started.

“No, this is a scientific study, we need data!” Harry insists, and Zayn makes a face at him so Harry’s laughing, and swats at Zayn’s ass as he reaches over Harry to get the lube and a condom from his bedside table.

Harry’s gentle as he opens Zayn up, careful almost, like he thinks Zayn will break even though he knows he won’t, but it’s torture too, how slow and thorough he is, stretching Zayn open with his fingers like he’s teasing until Zayn’s groaning and Harry’s smirking.

“You going to make me beg?” Zayn asks, a Harry scissors his fingers and hits his prostate and he devolves into white sparks behind his eyes.

“Sounds like fun, sometime,” Harry tells him but then he’s pulling his fingers out and putting on the condom.

If Zayn had thought he’d ever gone slow before, this is a thousand times worse, a thousand times better, how Harry fucks into him patiently, constantly, with his hand on Zayn’s cock at the same pace, and Zayn hopes it’s good for Harry because he can’t think of anything, can just tighten his legs around Harry’s waist and his hands on Harry’s back to bring him in deeper, to get more of him.

The orgasm hits him like a wave, cresting as Harry’s big hand tightens around him, and he has to close his eyes as the endorphins buzzes through him, as Harry fucks him through it until he’s lax and spent. Harry keeps his hands on Zayn’s legs, keeping him open, and when Zayn manages to open his eyes again he’s staring at Zayn, open-mouthed, like he’d never seen him come before.

Zayn smiles, and reaches up to pull him down to kiss him, and he swallows Harry’s moan as he comes.

Harry collapses on top of him, burying his face in Zayn’s neck, and Zayn runs his hand down Harry’s back, tracing the muscles there. He’s good. It’s good. He’s happy.

////

“Why the fuck is there a suit jacket in our hall!” comes the yell, breaking Zayn out of the half-doze he’d been in, his nose buried in Harry’s hair. “Zayn, you better have a naked Harry in there and not a murdered one!”

“What if he’s naked and murdered?” Zayn shouts back, and Harry giggles next to him.

“That’s not better! I need to know if I have to hide a body!”

There’s a shushing sound from outside, clearly Cora, and Zayn grins as Louis clearly retorts.

“I feel murdered,” Harry admits, stretching a little. He makes a face as the sheets rub against him, probably because they aren’t nearly as smooth as his. “I think you killed me, Zayn. I will have to stay in this bed the rest of my life. Except, like, in my will I’m going to bequeath you my sheets.”

Zayn laughs, and leans over to kiss him. “He’s not going to let it go, though, not until we go out there.” He pauses, thinking about it. “If you want, I mean. We could go get food, or go back to yours, if you want.”

“Zayn.” Harry’s hands come up to circle Zayn’s face, tangling a little in his hair. “Zayn, I want to stay here, and hang out with your friends, in your apartment, because I want to be a part of your life, okay? Like I want you to be a part of mine.”

“Yeah.” Zayn takes a deep breath. He does. He believes Harry. He’s decided. “Yeah, then we should probably put on pants.”

They make it out of Zayn’s room ten minutes later, both in pairs of Zayn’s sweatpants. Louis and Cora are already stretched out over the couch, their legs tangled together. It’s sweet. It’s sweeter when Zayn has Harry holding his hand.

“See?” Zayn says, cuffing Louis’s head to announce their presence. “Not murdered.”

“Oh good. I’m too pretty for prison,” Louis retorts. “Good to see you alive, Harry.”

“You too.”

“And this is Cora, Lou’s girlfriend,” Zayn says, nodding to Cora. “Cora, this is Harry. My, um.” It’s the first time he’s said it to someone else. “My boyfriend.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says, smiling broadly as Harry holds out his hand to shake.

Louis tilts his head back to look at Zayn. “So it’s like that?”

“Yeah. And shut up,” he warns, because he knows Louis’s ‘I told you so’ face. “Is there food?”

“Did you buy any?” Louis retorts.

“Would I be asking if I did?”

“Do you really sometimes buy canvases instead of food?” Harry interrupts. Zayn rolls his eyes, and leads him around the room to the front of the couch. There’s not really enough room for four people on the couch, and not enough room for one person anywhere but the couch, but Harry solves that problem by taking a comfortable seat on Zayn’s lap. “Do you?” he demands.

Louis sighs. “Zayn, you said you’d stop doing that.”

“Not often!” Zayn protests. “And you two can’t gang up on me.”

“Sure we can,” Harry retorts. “It’s my job now. Also, you’re eating at mine more often so I can make sure you’re eating.”

“Anyway,” Zayn goes on, ignoring the warmth in him at Harry’s words, at his concern. “It might not matter much more. I’ve got a meeting with Rochelle, I’m going to see her Wednesday, show her some stuff.”

“What!” Louis punches Zayn’s arm. “That’s great!”

“Congratulations!” Cora claps, and Harry grabs Zayn’s chin so he can kiss him. Thoroughly.

They’re both flushed when they come up for air at Louis’s not very subtle cough. “Knew you could,” Harry murmurs, and Zayn grins and ducks his head.

“Okay, I don’t want to see any more of that, and we need to celebrate. This what the six pack was for?” Louis asks, and climbs over the back of the couch before Zayn can answer. Given that he’s only going two feet, it doesn’t take long until he’s back, handing a beer out to each of them.

“To success!” Cora says, as they all clink their glasses.

“To happiness,” Louis adds. His hand’s resting on hers on her thigh.

“To moving forward,” Harry adds, nuzzling into Zayn’s hair.

Zayn looks at his friends, at Harry there in his space with them, sticking his tongue out at Louis’s teasing for his cheesiness. Fitting in, into Zayn’s world, like maybe Zayn could fit into his. He wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, holds him close, and knocks his foot against Louis’s. “To being seen,” he says, and drinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Want to discuss? Comment or come chat on [ tumblr!](http://zaynandhisboys.tumblr.com/)


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